LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 



( fi^as II — 

Chap. Copyright No. 

Shelf..a-1-^ ^^ 
I^'ll 

UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



Win^^ of Autumn 

ano 

(Bti)tx ^oems 




Cincinnati 

|)rc6g of Curtfi ann S^^Jvinffg 

1899 



'^^I'ary of ' ^ 






i J SI --^ 



'5^3?^ should the phttSSoph'tC' nitnd disdain 
That good Tvhich makes each humbler bosom. <vain ? 
Let school-taught pride dissemble all it can. 
These little things are great to little man/* 

—Oliver Goldsmith. 



iUJCOI*»fe«i HECtilV. 



^^r^4 1889 I 







PREFACE 

In presenting this book of little poems to the pub- 
lic^ the author has but one desire ; viz., to do good. He 
hopes that he may encourage and inspire the yoting 
as well as comfort and strengthen the old. If the 
young can only, by reading these rhymes, be encour- 
aged to use their talents, whether they be great or 
small, or can be enabled to see new beauties in the 
things around them, and thus be contented and happy; 
if the old can be comforted and strengthened by any 
word they may find in this book, and thus be made to 
feel that life for them is not lost, the author shall be 
thrice paid for all the time he has used in his efforts 
to make mankind happy. The author believes that 
among the unnoticed and the unknown, though not 
without honor, are hundreds, yea, thousands, who are 
bearing daily heavy burdens, and carrying grave re- 
sponsibilities, and are playing a great part in shap- 
ing the destinies of men and women. He hopes that 
he may reach this class of people at least with some 
word of help and good cheer. With this desire alone, 
I am Faithfully you r friend, 

ULYSSES A. FOSTER. 



CONTENTS 



PAGE, 

Frontispiece, - - - _ _ - 8 

Winds of Autumn, g 

Come, Pray With Me Now, - - - _ n 

Our Preacher, 13 

Apoi^ogy for the Onion, - - _ -16 
The Oi,d Waste Gate, - - - . 18 

II.I.USTRATION, - . - _ _ _ JQ 

Readin' the Book, 22 

When the Nuts are Fai,i,in', - - _ 25 

The Dove Song, 27 

iviFE, 29 

RosANNA Lee, 30 

I1.1.USTRAT10N, - - - - . _3j 

The Bed of Sand, 3^ 

Where I was Born, 3^ 

Mother and Sister Cai^wn', - - - 44 

Il,I,USTRATlON, 4^ 

IvIvin' on the Farm, - - _ _ 49 

Honest John, ^i 

To THE Moon, ^3 

5 



6 CONTENTS 

PAGE. 

Namin' the Boy, ------ 56 

Il.I,USTRATlON, ------ 57 

The Farmer's Regret, - _ - _ 60 
IvUCy's Troubi^e, - - - - - 66 

The Omnipresence, ----- 67 

Time, -------- 69 

The Union Flag, - - - - - -71 

A Song of Life, ----- 72 



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WINDS OF AUTUMN 

THE wind that blows in autumn days 
Has a sweet, solemn sound; 
The rustling leaves, the rattling corn, 
Make music all around. 

The sweetness is, it tells of rich 
And precious gifts for store, 

When winter comes to stay so long. 
And anxious toil is o'er. 

The autumn wind is sweet to all 
When showering us with leaves; 

But when it tokens death to man, 
Its blowing often grieves. 

The leaves of autumn, yellow, red, 

Are carpeting the ground; 
The breeze that carries them along. 

Makes joy in all abound. 



WINDS OF AUTUMN 

When autumn zephyrs speak to us 

Of Him who gathers all, 
It is not sad, but only joy, 

When leaves of autumn fall. 

The autumn winds, which often tell 

Of summer spent in sin. 
Bring murmurings of golden days, 

Lost, not to come again. 

The autumn is the harvest time, 
And when the breezes blow 

That tell of home and heaven near, 
No sorrow if we go. 

Blow, then, svv^eet messengers of peace ! 

Nor cease until we come, 
Like red and many-tinted leaves. 

To our sweet rest at home. 



COME, PRAY WITH ME NOW 

SHE was ready for bed, in her little white 
gown; 
Her brown eyes, and her light, golden 
hair, 
Were smiHng on me, from her fond moth- 
er's knee; 
It was time for her evening prayer. 

I turned from my desk; but I can not tell 
how 
I was thrilled with her love and delight; 
For she tenderly said, as I kneeled at her 
bed, 
" Papa, come, pray with me now." 

I kneeled at her bed, with my hands on 
her head. 
So grateful was I for her love • 



12 COME, PRAY WITH ME NOW 

I prayed in my heart, that she might ne'er 
depart 
From the ways of her Father above. 

And so, as I go through the pathway of 
life. 
Though it may be darkened somehow; 
For me it is light, and all the way bright, 
As I hear, "Papa, come, pray with me 
now." 



OUR PREACHER 

JOHN, there comes our preacher, 
A-walkin' down the street; 
He 's good as our town ever had, 
And I tell yer he 's hard to beat. 

He 's a man that 's allers busy 

A-visitin' and such ; 
And when it comes to preachin', 

They ain't any as can beat him much. 

He ain't any of them stiff-necked fellers, 

As is allers passin' you by ; 
He calls on the rich 'n' poor alike, 

And them that 's ready to die. 

He ain't afraid to tell us 

If he sees we 're going wrong. 

And if he thinks a feller 's right. 
He tries to help him along. 



14 OUR PREACHER 

He goes along with the boys, you know, 
And the boys just think he 's them ; 

He ain't afraid to speak to 'em, 

And I tell you they 're proud o' him. 

I wish you could hear him preach, John, 
He 'd lift you clear off of your seat ; 

Sometimes, when he gets to sailin' in, 
The folks get up on their feet. 

And then when he goes to prayer-meeting, 
He 's a-shakin' hands with us all, 

No matter if you 're rich or poor. 
Or if you 're big or small. 

Then when it comes to votin' — 
He walks right up to the polls. 

And votes as if he thought 
It was done for savin' souls. 

He ain't afraid of his politics 

And religion a-mixin' up; 
And so he votes his sentiments, 

No matter what 's the rub. 



OUR PREACHER 15 

I tell you I have an idea, John, 
That when his race is run, 

The angels will be a waitin' 
To say to him, '* Well done !" 



APOLOGY FOR THE ONION 

ONIONS, onions, onions, how delight- 
fully they smell ! 
Just at dinner time, you know, Jane, when 

you hear the nooning bell, 
Or when, fresh from out the oven, you 

have lifted the Johnny-cake, 
And the room, with many odors, telling 

how much pains you take ; 
Smells of beef, and bread and butter, or 

the fish from out the lake, 
Then it is the welcomed onion adds a sav- 
ory smell to all. 
And delights the weary plowman as he 

comes within the hall. 
Yet they tell us how that onion racks our 

stomachs and our nerves, 
Never telling how the onion its Creator's 

purpose serves. 

i6 



APOLOGY FOR THE ONION 17 

I am told that convalescents, needing rest 

and strength renewed, 
Find it in a mess of onions, roasted, baked, 

or fried, or stewed. 
So the onion has its mission in the world 

as well as we, 
And the lesson of the viand is so plain 

that all can see : 
If man would, in every calling, make his 

presence to be felt. 
He should cast some good around him far 

as onions can be smelt. 



THE OLD WASTE-GATE 

HARD by a time-worn water-race, 
'Mid willows and rushes tall, 
Is a whirlpool in the river's trace. 
For fishing the best of all. 

Of the ancient waste-gate there is left 
Two remnants of moss-grown wall ; 

Near the whirlpool in the river's trace, 
'Mid the willows and rushes tall. 

Beyond the whirlpool, in the race, 
In the course where the river ran, 

Hard by the wall and the willows tall, 
Is a bed of pure white sand. 

Still out in the rolling current. 

More than twice the length of a pole. 

Was the coolest, cleanest, prettiest. 
Deepest swimmin' hole. 

i8 



THE OLD WASTE-GATE 21 

And now, while I 'm talkin' about it, 
There 's a truth I can not pass ; 

For that swimmin' hole was floppin' full 
Of black and speckled bass. 

If I was out for a ramble, 

And tarried rather late, 
It 'most were safe to gamble 

I was fishin' at the old waste-gate. 

Or if I was n't a-fishin' 

At the big end of a pole, 
I was most assuredly a-paddlin' round 

In that old swimmin' hole. 

Should it be for me to mention, 
When my Master for me shall call, 

I 'd like to sleep at the old waste-gate 
'Mid the willows and rushes tall. 



READIN' THE BOOK 

You know I 's just a-thinkin', Jane, 
Of how as it would look 
To see a feller tough as me 
A-readin' in the Book ! 

You know as how I 've lived, Jane, 
Away from church and such, 

And never cared for Sunday-school 
Nor meetin' very much. 

And then you know it 's true, Jane, 

I 've made it blue for you 
When I was swearin' and drinkin' round, 

And you a-prayin' it through. 

I Ve been a-thinkin' 'bout it, Jane, 

And guess I 'd better quit 
My cursin' around and drinkin' so. 

And in the right road git. 



READIN' THE BOOK 23 

You see, I was just a-thinkin', Jane, 
If you would help me some, 

I 'd read a little in the Book, 
And turn away from rum. 

I really am in earnest, Jane, 

And now I mean to try 
To follow what the Good Book says 

To mansions in the sky. 

Where had I better read, Jane? 

I wish you 'd tell me quick ; 
For of this load of sin I 'm tired, 

And gittin' awful sick. 

And what is this I see, Jane, 
" Come unto me, and rest ?" 

Is that for wicked men like me. 
With loads upon their breast? 

And here it says again, Jane, 
"Ask, and ye shall receive." 

It looks like that is meant for me, 
I really do believe. 



24 READIN' THE BOOK 

Yes, now I know He saves me, Jane, 

For what is this about? 
*' Him that cometh unto me, 

I '11 in no wise cast out." 

And now there 's this I know, Jane, 

That I will better be ; 
For I have found my Savior, Christ, 

And he has made me free. 



WHEN THE NUTS ARE FALLIN' 

IN the autumn, in the autumn, 
When the leaves are many-hued, 
When the pies are on the table, 
Made of pumpkin, bully stewed; 

When the cornstalks all are breakin' 
With the ears of golden corn, 

And the apple-trees are loaded 
Full as ever they have borne ; 

When the wheatfields have been broken, 
And the crops are in the ground. 

When the katydid 's a-singin'. 

And the squirrel 's a-barkin' round, — 

Then I like to be a-sprawlin' 
On the ground out in the wood, 

Just to hear the nuts a-fallin', 
Cause the music sounds so good. 

25 



26 WHEN THE NUTS ARE FALLIN' 

I remember, in my boyhood, 

When my brother climbed the tree, 

And I 'd hear the nuts a-fallin', 
And my heart was full of glee. 

Or we 'd take a lengthy saplin', 
And we 'd make a buttin' ram, 

Then we 'd hear the nuts a-fallin' 
When we 'd give the tree a jam. 

You may talk about your huntin' 
And your fishin', if you please; 

But to me the fun is when the 
Nuts are fallin' from the trees. 



THE DOVE SONG 

JUST after breakfast one early morn, 
When the sun was shining bright, 
My sweet Httle girl was playing around 
Just like a little sprite. 

When suddenly she stood in the open door. 
With her eyes brimful of love. 

" O mamma, mamma, come here quick, 
And listen to this dove !" 

Her mamma hastened to the door: 

The dove sat on the ground ; 
It sat alone, and cooed, and cooed, 

For no one else was round. 

There was a sadness in her song; 

She was cooing over her fate, 
For just an hour or two before 

A hunter had killed her mate. 
27 



28 THE DOVE SONG 

We felt the sadness of lier song, 
And thinking she, too, was hurt ; 

For she sat in the road, and cooed, and 
cooed, 
Down in the dust and dirt. 

So, starting toward her, just to see 
If we could relieve her pain. 

She flew away, with her sad, sweet song, 
And we never heard her again. 



LIFE 

LIFE 's like a troubled sea : two eternities 
' Between. 

The past can ne'er be sailed twice, the fu- 
ture is yet 

Unseen. 

The past of life 's no longer than since 

The day of birth. 
The future is eternal, be it sad 

Or full of mirth. 

No life but has its stormy days, 
Its fearful tempest seas ; 

And yet, the calm and balmy hours 
Come in to brighten these. 

Have courage, then, O sailor ! if rough 

Or smooth it be ; 
If Jesus is your Captain, he '11 calm 

Each stormy sea. 
29 



ROSANNA LEE 

ROSANNA Lke, one bright, warm day, 
Stood in the 'tater patch, 
Her sleeves rolled up, her hoe in hand, 
Her arms sunburned and scratched. 

She was n't there for mischief. 
Nor to be a-meanderin' around. 

But to help about diggin' the 'taters 
From the rich and mellow ground. 

Rosanna lyce had worked all day 
With goose-necked hoe in hand; 

She was workin' with a will, you see, 
Helpin' to pay for the land. 

Rosanna Lee was honest, too, 

As any you 'd wish to see ; 
That 's why she was diggin' 'taters, 

And happy as she could be. 
30 








**Shc believed in bein* and do'in'/* 



ROSANNA LEE 33 

Her mother was old 'n' crippled, 
The farm was mortgaged for debt ; 

That 's why Rosanna was workin' 
And wipin' the honest sweat. 

And she was good to the old folks, 

As every one should be ; 
For her mother to be a-diggin' round 

She could n't stand to see. 

She was n't so very polish like, 
And primp 'n' pretty as some ; 

Nor you would n't see her standin' round 
A-wigglin' 'n' chewin' gum. 

I say she was n't pretty, much ; 

But a look of good in her face 
Made her presence an inspiration 

To all who shared her grace. 

She thought more of bein' and doin' good, 
Than pretendin' and appearin' 'n' such, 

She was n't in for spreadin' it on 
Nor flatterin' you very much. 



34 ROSANNA LEE 

She believed in knowin' and bein' and 
doin' 

In honesty, virtue, and grace ; 
Her heart was full of sunshine, 

You could see it in her face. 

She believed in goin' to meetin', too, 
And in keepin' the law of the lyord ; 

She was ready to work for the Master, 
And was a reader of the Word. 

If anybody wanted help 

When needy as they could be. 

Most likely they 'd be a-tryin' 
To get Rosanna I^ee. 

She was just like the faithful woman 
Of whom Jesus spoke so good, 

When he said, for her memorial, 
"She hath done what she could." 

If you wish to share his praises, then, 

In time or eternity. 
You should seek the good of others, 

As did Rosanna Lee. 



THE BED OF SAND 

'T'hk evening twilight gathered, 
1 A breeze blew soft o'er the land ; 
It was a summer sunset, 

Children played in a bed of sand. 

They were the parson's children ; 

A girl, with shovel in hand, 
And a boy of four Septembers 

Were working a bed of sand. 

The preacher sat and watched them, 
The shadows darkened the land ; 

He said, I am poor, and all I have 
Is on that bed of sand. 

The mother had recently left them, 

A little, lonely band ; 
They often had her company 

As they shoveled the bed of sand. 



36 THE BED OF SAND 

She was living now in heaven, 

And, with the angel band, 
Was looking out from the starlit skies 

For her own on the bed of sand. 

He wondered what he 'd take for 
them, 
As they toiled with their shovels 
in hand. 
" O, they 're worth all the world to 
me," he said, 
As thej^ shouted from the bed of 
sand. 

The stars shone out that evening, 
As he watched the little band ; 

"God keep them ever pure!" he prayed, 
As they dug in the bed of sand. 

The years went on; the little girl 

Became a woman grand; 
But she never forgot the evenings 

She played in the bed of sand. 



THE BED OF SAND 37 

The little boy became a man : 

He belonged to the honored band, 

And he often blessed the moments 
He spent on the bed of sand. 

It was not the sand they loved so much» 
But the memories they held so dear ; 

For they never forgot the bed of sand 
If the days were bright or drear. 

As time passed on, the children gone, 
And the father, with head in hand, 

Sat thinking of the days long passed, 
And gazed on the bed of sand. 

The children gone, yes, gone for aye ; 

The angels had broken the band, 
And all that remained was the poor 
old man. 

And the grass-grown bed of sand. 

But he knew full well that a day would 
come 
When he 'd join the chorus grand ; 



38 THE BED OF SAND 

And all tliat would last, to show he had 
lived, 
Would be his bed of sand. 

And then he rejoiced, as he thought of the 
day 
When, with glory immortal, he 'd stand 
Arrayed in the presence of loved ones so 
dear, 
Who had played on the bed of sand. 

I am rich, then, he said, as he lifted his 
head 

From its place in the palm of his hand; 
For Jesus hath paid me more than I asked 

For my wealth on the bed of sand. 



WHERE I WAS BORN 

I've just been out a-lazyin' around 
The spot where I had my birth; 
Somehow, it sort o' seems to me 
The dearest place on earth. 

It do n't look now much like it did 

The day that I was born ; 
For the house is gone, the field 's 
plowed up, 

And is full of golden corn. 

I wish you might have seen the house 
Where I first oped my eyes ; 

It was n't one of them tall things 
Like " mansions in the skies." 

It was long, and broad, and low, 

And flat ; 
It was built of logs, and 'minds one some 

Of a Quaker's broad out hat. 

39 



40 WHERE I WAS BORN 

Of course I didn't know much about 
What to look for when I came; 

But I had good sense, or luck enough, 
To have mother there "just the same.' 

My father was n't far away 

When I began to been ; 
As I was lookin' for a place 

He kindly took me in. 

I s'pose that 's why I 've always had 

A-likin' for pa and ma. 
And a-feelin' as if they have n't got 

In them a single flaw. 

I do n't know as I remember right, 
But it seems to me it 's true, 

That there were two girls ahead o' me, 
About four years and two. 

I was the first boy to land 

In our Indiana cabin; 
I was n't asked about it much, 

But that 's the way it happened. 



WHERE I WAS BORN 41 

There was Rachel Ann, and Mack, 

And John came after me ; 
I know I 'm right about this part, 

For I was there, you see. 

My pa and ma were generous, 
And each did well their part 

To give to all the six of us 
In life an even start. 

It all was happy round our home 

Until the angel call 
Took Mary Bell and Rachel Ann, 

The brightest of us all. 

We laid them in the churchyard, 

About a mile away; 
They 're with the I^ord, awaiting us 

And the final rising day. 

Do you wonder I like to lazy around 
In a sort of prayerful mind. 

And treasure, in my inmost soul, 
All traces I can find 



42 WHERE I WAS BORN 

Of things that cluster round our home, 
And call to mind more near 

The boyish sports, the loving words. 
That made our home so dear? 

I wish I could, in some degree. 
At least, pay back the debt 

Of gratitude I '11 owe for aye 
To loved ones living yet. 

I wish I had a picture, now, 
Of that cabin, do n't you see. 

Where first I saw my pa and ma. 
And drank the catmint tea. 

It 's all right now ; you know full well 

We had to have a start; 
And mother wasn't one of them 

As would fail to do her part. 

There 's this I 'm glad that I can say 

To honor pa and ma : 
They did n't feed me opiates. 

Nor on the whisky draw. 



WHERE I WAS BORN 43 

They had a sort of Puritanic 

Way of doin' things : 
Of trustin' God and doin' right, 

No matter what it brings. 

That cabin home has meaning now 

To me it never had 
Till one September da}^ there came 

To me a little lad. 

He did n't apologize for comin' in 

And makin' all his fuss; 
But he calls me pa, and Hanner ma, 

And is livin' oflf of us. 

If I can only do as well 

In training little Jack 
As mother did about bringing up 

Elizabeth, John, and Mack, 

Then I shall feel I have a right 
To be thankful for my days, 

And ever give to God above 
An offering of praise. 



MOTHER AND SISTER CALLIN' 

Hu-u-u-u-HOO ! hu-u-u-u-u-hoo ! this 
was my mother or sister 
A-callin' us home from the field 
About the time the coffee was hot 
And the 'taters had been peeled. 

It was not the call of fear or alarm, 
But one of comfort and cheer. 

You see, our home was on the farm, 
And we lived there year by year. 

The call of my mother, so often heard, 
Sent a thrill of joy through me ; 

And it lingers now, like the song of the 
bird 
At morning, at noon, and at tea. 

You see, we had plowin' and clearin' 
to do, 
And plenty of work that was hard ; 

44 



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MOTHER AND SISTER CALLIN' 47 

And mother or sister would call us at 
noon, 
From the door or the gate at the yard. 

I thought, when at work, as boys 
often do, 
I wish we were off of the farm; 
And sometimes the plowin' and dig- 
gin' I 'd shirk 
To go fishin' or swing in the barn. 

But since I 've grown older, and gone 
from the farm, 
And livin' on what I can get, 
I wish I was plowin' out back of the 
barn, 
And mother was callin' us yet. 

And now, since my sister has gone to 
the West, 
And we are all workin' so hard, 
It is sweet to imagine she 's callin' her 
best 
At the door or the gate at the yard. 



48 MOTHER AND SISTER CALLIN' 

But there 's comin' a time when this 

toilin' will cease, 
And the call at the door and the yard 
Will give place to the call of the Great 

Prince of Peace, 
And we '11 go to our final reward. 



LIVIN' ON THE FARM 

WHEN the sun is sinking softly 
Over mountain, hill, and glen, 
And you hear the farmer callin' 
His pigs into the pen ; 

Just when everything's the coolest 
It has been since early dawn ; 

And the day of toil is over. 
And you 're rollin' on the lawn 

When the milkin' and the feedin' 
And the chorin' 's all been done ; 

When the moon is gently shinin' 
In the place of bihn' sun ; 

When, instead of noisy sickle, 
You can hear the whip-poor-will ; 

When the hoe and cultivator 
And the plow is standin' still ; 

49 



50 LIVIN' ON THE FARM 

When the cow has quit her bawlin', 
And the chicken 's on the roost ; 

When the ducks are in the orchard, 
And you hear the squawkin' goose 

Then it 's nice, I tell you, Mary, 
To be standin' at the bars, 

A-hearin' in the distance, low, 
The rumblin' of the cars. 

Or a-sittin' in the moonlight 

With some one you dearly love ; 

Or a-saunterin' round the orchard, 
Listenin' to the cooin' dove. 

When the little ones are sleepin' 
On their pillows out of harm, 

Then it is it 's blessed, Mary, 
To be livin' on the farm. 



HONEST JOHN 

HONEST John 's my brother, 
The baby, and the pet ; 
Of all the children of my mother 
He 's the biggest yet. 

When he came to our house 

A puny, little mite, 
All the neighbors reckoned surely 

He would soon be out of sight. 

When, at last, he got to growin', 

Gettin' fatter every day. 
It was plain to all a-showin' 

That a man was on the way. 

Baby John 's past twenty, mother. 
Weighs two hundred, I '11 be bound, 

From his crown down to his shoe-soles 
Just as good as big around. 

51 



52 HONEST JOHN 

I was just a-thinkin', mother, 

We would write and let you know, 

How we love our baby brother 
Since his manhood 'gins to show. 

I was meditatin', mother, 

Of the days long passed away. 

Thankful for an honest brother 
Willin' with the folks to stay. 

Yes, I know he helps you, mother. 
His reward is sure to come, 

And the angels will be waitin'. 
Just to say to him, "Well done!" 



TO THE MOON 

THOU fair and queenly moon, 
Thy silvery beauty gilds the night, 
Thou art a precious boon, 
Thy face beams with delight. 

Thou bride of the king of day, 
Thy radiance and thy glory shine, 

Gild all the darkened way. 
Point us to thy shrine. 

Thy beauty is beyond our thought; 

No mortal can thy glory paint; 
Thou art divinely wrought, 

Thou lookest like a saint. 

Thou art the gem of night ; 

We ne'er can comprehend 
The beauty of thy face of light ; 

Thy praise should have no end. 

53 



54 TO THE MOON 

If thou couldst only shine 

To penetrate the low abyss of sin, 

And impart grace divine, 

O, where wouldst thou begin ? 

What awful deeds dost thou behold ! 

And O, what sorrows couldst thou tell ! 
What love thou wouldst unfold, 

How earth 's like heaven, and how like 
hell! 

I am glad thy face no sorrow shows. 
Thy silvery rays no sins portray; 

From thy face peace, light, and beauty 
flow 
As silentl}^ thou keepest thy way. 

No wonder the heathen worshiped thee, 
And gave to thee his praise. 

When thou art such a friend to man 
In all th}^ many ways. 

Yet I would not adore thee. 
But let thy beauty shine ; 



TO THE MOON 55 

For back of thy sweet face, 
Is the eye of the Divine. 

O, queen of all the night, 
I/Ct thy sweet face reveal 

The Lord of glory and of light, 
And thou, thyself, its seal. 

We join thee, fairest one, 

In thy nightly round of praise ; 

He who our race begun 
Directs our ways. 



NAMIN' THE BOY 

You may wonder why we call him Jack, 
Do n't know as I can tell you why ; 
There 's something in his noise and fuss, 
And a-twinklin in his eye. 

They call his mother's papa Jack, 

And I suppose that 's why, 
When baby came with noise and fuss 

And a-twinklin' in his eye. 

He had two grandpas, one was Jack, 

And one, you see, was Jake; 
His mamma knew not what to do, 

Which name she ought to take. 

We did not want to call him Jack, 

But Jackson, do n't you see ; 
And Jake would better sound to us 

If I^ayman it should be. 

56 




He calls me pa, and Hanner ma, 
And is livin* off of us. 



NAMIN' THE BOY 59 

And SO, just puttin' in the Jack, 
We called him I^ayman Jackson ; 

It suited both of us you know, 
And Jake and Jack exactly. 

But everybody called him Jack, 

We never knew just why, 
Unless it was because he had 

A-twinklin' in his eye. 

And somehow% since they call him Jack, 

It sort o' tickles us; 
It suits so well when he comes round 

With all his noise and fuss. 

And so we simply call him Jack, 

And let it all pass by ; 
He looks like both his dear grandpas 

With the twinkle in his eye. 



THE FARMER'S REGRET 

I REGRET that the boys are all leavin' 
the farm, 
And goin' to stay in the town ; 
Of course it is doin' the city good, 
But it 's tearin' the country down. 

We need the boys in the country, you 
know, 

And it makes us feel so bad 
To go to Sunday-school and church, 

And never see a lad. 

About the time they 're big enough 

To take our burdens up. 
They've gone to town to teach, or 
work, 
And left us " in the soup." 
60 



THE FARMER'S REGRET 6i 

Then I do n't know as I blame the boys, 
But it makes things mighty hard ; 

There is n't even a boy around 
To rake or mow the yard. 

But when a man gets old as me, 
And things are goin' to rack, 

It makes one sad to feel and know 
The boys ain't comin' back. 

I rather like the city myself. 

Its street, and boulevards, 
With houses built of brick 'n' stone, 

And cement walks in the yards. 

Then you know it breaks the monotony 
To see street-cars runnin' along, 

And people a-sittin' in 'em 
Or standin' like a throng. 

Morning papers ! morning papers ! 

The newsboys a-calHn' out; 
It seems as though you lived somewhere 

Or some'rs near about. 



62 THE FARMER'S REGRET 

Or to hear a train a-tootin', 

And to see the ringin' bell, 
Or to listen to the fellers a-hoUerin : 

"This way! hack to best hotel." 

Or to be a-standin' in the depot, 
And see 'em hurryin' around 

To get their tickets, and find the train 
That '11 take them where they 're bound. 

To stand and look at the faces 

Of folks a-runnin' by, 
Some lookin' mad and poutin'. 

Others ready to cry. 

Some of 'em old 'n' crippled, 

And hardly can get along; 
Some lookin' like they 're happy 

And nothin' 's a-goin' wrong. 

It kind o' breaks the monotony 

To leave the country farm 
To see the sights in the city, 

And hear the fire alarm. 



THE FARMER'S REGRET 63 

It keeps a feller awake, you know, 

A-watchin' where lie 's at, 
Especially if he 's old, like me. 

He 's liable to get knocked flat. 

There 's lots of boys a-leavin' the farm 
And goin' to stay in the city; 

We hear 'em talkin' all around, 
Now ain't that just a pity ? 

I '11 tell you what I think about 

This crowdin' into town : 
It 's good enough for the boys, I guess. 

But it 's breakin' the old folks down. 

I think the farmer ought to try 

To fix things up at home 
So the boys will want to stay there 

And quit a-tryin' to roam. 

Fix up your farms, put in your 'phones, 
And run the street-car through. 

Then, pretty soon, the boys will think 
There 's something at home to do. 



64 THE FARMER'S REGRET 

Fix Up your schoolhouse, and the church, 

Put a grand pipe-organ in, 
Make your Sunday-school as good for them 

As the folks in the cit}^ kin. 

We need our young life on the farm 

As well as in the town. 
To make life more to them, I think, 

Would change the thing around. 

And really, while we all can see, 
That country life 's monotonous, 

The city 's full of life and push, 
But also full of rottenness. 

And after all that 's said and done 
About city lad and country Jake, 

When the people want a President, 
It 's the farmer's boy they take. 

And when it comes to teachin' 
And preachin', or pleadin' law, 

It is n't on the city, but 

The country they have to draw. 



THE FARMER'S REGRET 65 

Or when a clerk is wanted 

Who can sell to beat a Jew, 
They get a country boy, you know, 

To put the business through. 

I think one reason why, just now, 

This cry is in the land 
That the country boys are leavin' home 's 

Because they 're in demand. 

If country life 's monotonous, boys, 
And sometimes slow and dull. 

Remember it is n't where you 're from, 
But what is in your skull 

That makes you able to advance, 

And gain for self a name, 
And leave a record worth your life. 

And reach the round of fame. 

So while I 'm sad to miss my James, 
And John, and Jake, and Dan, 

I 'm sorry I have n't more to give 
To the honor of our land. 



LUCY'S TROUBLE 

I's been out in the berr}^ patch 
A-eatin' berries, ma; 
I 's dot 'em on my nose 'n' cheek, 
I s'pec's they 's on my jaw. 

Pa says dey is n't dittin' ripe ; 

If he was where I 's been 
He 'd see dis' how I dot 'em 

On my nose, 'n' face, 'n' chin. 

They say I 's full of mischief 

And dittin' awfu' bad, but I des I ain't; 

I 's dis a-doin' like big girls do, 
I 's puttin' on my paint. 

I wish dey 'd let me do as I please, 

I dis as dood as I tan be; 
When I dets big dey won't 'oose me so. 

Now 'oo dis wait 'n' see. 

66 



THE OMNIPRESENCE 

THERE 's a thought that lingers with me 
Like a shadow on a sunlit day ; 
It is an inspiration to me, 
I beg it may ever stay. 

It stands before me as an angel 

That would zeal and strength impart, 

And often, when I am discouraged. 
It plants hope within my heart. 

That angel presence fills me 
With courage when oppressed ; 

It bids me do my duty. 

And leave with God the rest. 

It 's the thought of the Omnipresence, 
Of Him who sees and hears and knows 

All we do, or ask, or think, 

Our labors, our needs, our woes. 
67 



68 THE OMNIPRESENCE 

The thought that He is present 
Should make our lives replete 

With deeds and words of kindness 
For the Master's glory meet. 



TIME 

TIME is but a portion 
Of duration measured out; 
It is given us of God, 
And we should go about, 

To use the same 

As unto One who sees, 
And one who also knows 

Where each allotted moment 
goes. 

Time comes to us, and then 't is 
gone. 
Just as the eagle in its flight. 
We sleep and dream tis but 
dawn, 
And lo, behold the night. 
69 



70 TIME 

Time never returns to ask of us 
How we are getting along ; 

But when 'tis past, 'tis gone 
for aye, 
If rightly used or wrong. 

To Him who is 

The Truth, the Way, 

Give all your time 
Both night and day. 

Then, when your race 

On earth is run, 
You '11 hear the 

Master say, "Well done." 



THE UNION FLAG 

THE flag ! the flag ! the flag ! 
The dear old Union flag ! 

Her folds are striped in honor bright, 
Her stars are shining day and night ; 
We hail our ensign with delight, 
Our dear old Union flag. 

She is the glory of the free, 
And let her honor ever be ; 
She 's in the islands of the sea. 
Our dear old Union flag. 

She heralds peace to every land. 
Protects the missionary band. 
Gives blessings where she takes her stand, 
Our dear old Union flag. 

She 's honored all the world around. 
Wherever liberty is found; 
She '11 never trail upon the ground. 
Our dear old Union flag. 



THE SONG OF LIFE 

I WOULD feign write a song 
That would ever abide 
And throw all that is wrong 
Forever aside. 

It is this I would say : 
In all things be true, 

And though rough be the way, 
God will carry you through. 

When tempted and tried, 
As you journey along, 

Ivet the Book be your guide 
And His love be your song. 

And you '11 find, all the way 
From the earth to the skies 

Will be as a bright day 
Till you reach paradise. 

72 



SfP 4 J899 



